Oakhurst Collegiate School - Acorn Yearbook (Cincinnati, OH)

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into a sea of gold, which, deepening into purple, hid the golden edged clouds from View. What a wonderful sunset, said the man, as though noticing it for the first time. Is it? said the boy quietly. The man looked at the boy sharply, a sudden blind- ing thought came into his mind. You know, said the boy, a slight break in his voice, Iive never seen a sunset. It must he very beautifulemore beautiful than the song of a birdf' he hurried on gayly, feeling the mants sudden con- vulsive clasp on his arm. Just hear that robin now, he must be glad Spring is here, and so am lidontt you love the grass and trees and flowers? The man tried to speak, but could not. Figures were reeling drunkenly before him, figures of young men lying prone on a battlefieldnno, rising, groping their way blindly aboutifigures everywhere groping, groping, always in the terrible darkness, never to see the light. The boy spoke again. I say, it was awfully nice of you; Pm going right here in the corner apartment. Thanks, The man hardly knew the boy was gone. For a long time, he stood motionless; then, as he slowly looked down at the envelope clasped in his hand, a look of infinite loathing came over him. Holding the paper as though it were a poisoned weed, he tore it into bits. Across the square came the long, sweet note of a robin. The man raised his head and smiled-it seemed to him the first time he had smiled in years. S. K. M., 16. 26

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THE HIGH EXPLOSIVE HE man paced the length of the long, green labor- atory, with its rows and rows of curious bottles, once, twice, then paused to gaze fixedly out on the square. It was Sprinngpring, with bursting buds, warm sunshine, blue sky and joyous, limpid note of the robin. But the man paid no heed; his thoughts were far away over the seas with countries that were grappling in the death clutch, empires, kingdoms that were clumsily being swept away, hustled out of ex- istenceeyes, that was it--by the crude use of shrapnel and swordithe sword, that primitive weapon of man. Pah! Science and invention had been slow! Those countriesewhat they would give for something which would make hundreds, thousands, of their enemies not dead, but helpless; simply living, helpless bodies, which would drain the country; a burden which would go groping its way from place to place always taking, taking, never giving; what they would give! And he, Aaron Eliot, a poor American chemist, held this power in his hand! The thought was so overwhelming that, at times, his mind refused to believe it. Then he would go to the laboratory and, with fascinated horror, gaze at the peculiar greenish liquid in a long, transparent vial on the table. What they would give! He knew now. There on the table lay the contract of one of the greatest powers in Europe, waiting for his signature. With hands that trembled, he picked up the bit of paper and studied the figuresi$100,000,000. No one could 25 know what that meant to him; his long struggle with poverty would be over, he would be free, free to devote all his time to his experiments with precious metals and liquids, to buy priceless books-all would be his, all, through the signing away of the secret in the green Vial. He slowly picked up the pen and, with deliberate care, signed the contract, placed it in the envelope, took up his hat and descended to the square. Reach- ing the corner mail box, he hurriedly raised the top, as though anxious to have the matter out of his hands. Then, suddenly, a hand was laid timidly on his arm and a voice said, ttOh, I say, would you mind helping me across? The man let the mail box close, the letter still in his hand, and turned to gaze at a young boy of twenty or so, whose one hand was stretched out appealingly. The chemist noticed that the boys eyes were grey and had a strange,far-away look, as though they saw through him. The man noddedifor some reason, he couldntt speakwand, taking the boy's arm, he started across the street. As they went, he wondered at the boys firm, erect bearing, for he had at first thought himself accosted by a cripple. The sun was slowly sinking behind the tree tops, coloring the sky a brilliant, golden red. Here and and there hung little, purple clouds, the curled edges of which were tinged with gold. The fiery ball plunged

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THE SMILING FACE NE evening, I was loitering in an Egyptian dancing hall with a friend whom I had met along the upper Nile. llCome now, old fellow, he said, and tell me why you have been chasing over the continent for more than a year. liIndeed, said I, it is a ridiculous story and one which shames me very much? He laughed, Proceed? We both had become a little bored with the dark dancer in green and gold, so I began my story: IlWhile in Florence, one soft Italian evening, I happened to wander into one of those numerous and delightful cafes along the Via Allori. I was seated at a small iron table, endeavoring to eat a rather tasteless raspberry sherbet, when a woman entered-the strang- est and loveliest woman I have ever seen. She was, indeed, an extraordinary phenomenon. She possessed yellow, flaming red hair, which was strangely accom- panied by heavy, black eyebrows and lashes; her eyes themselves were a clear, grey green. I stared at her in amazement; suddenly she smiled. The bar of crimson set in her colorless face was broken by a Ilash of beautiful teeth. Never was there such a mouthil jumped in amazement, dazzled by the strangest smile I have ever known. Oh, that divine Italian night;the flickering lights, the colors, the odor of flowers and, floating through them all, her wonderful, smiling face. 27 HNow, my friend, I will idry up'n-lcanl my poetic feelings, if you like, and tell you why I chased all over Europe. For four months, I followed that womanls smile. Never was I near enough to speak to her Ishe was escorted by two menl, always near enough to see her smile. HOne day, in Paris, I was attracted by a gorgeous creation in a hat shop and, approaching, like all men, With a certain amount of caution, to my surprise I saw, through the large, plate-glass window, the object of my travel. I entered quickly. At last, my chance had come. Behind her stood a large, bony woman, evidently her maid. III heard the shop door close softly. I was casting about wildly for some expedient by which I might make myself known to her. llWhat could I pretend to be? An artistian inspired anarchist-a poet about to write an ode-a special messenger from the Hotel diAngelique? 'Would monsieur desire ma shaman? one of those frightful little Parisiennes had addressed me. ll lYes-a thousand! No, I beg your pardon, just oneaaia big one, withiwith feathersigreen feathers -and-and a coral pomponl' I managed to stammer heroically. ll tOui, monsieur, she noddedaevidently she had something which might faintly answer my graphic